And Then There Were None
by itookalittletrip
Summary: Vaguely she noticed his hair was wet— not that she paid such details much heed; perhaps he had washed, been caught in the rain. She could never have guessed Valjean had pulled him from the Seine. (May become a series of one-shots exploring Fantine and Javert's relationship if she had lived and Javert had been rescued by Valjean).
1. Chapter 1

**\- Chapter One -**

Cosette is with her when she sees him. Valjean provides her with an almost sympathetic look; one that says "I'm sorry, but this had to be done. I'll explain later."

Cosette is equally as bemused as her mother — wasn't the man sat at the kitchen table, staring into nothing, a traitor? A _police officer_? She does not notice her mother's paleness nor the sudden quietness. So much had happened so quickly… Valjean had made sure to become not only Marius' saviour, but now… Javert's? Fantine both understood and didn't understand.

It was the equivalent of saving Tholomyès, not that he could ever redeem himself. She was sure the same could be predicted for Javert.

Cosette coughed, gave Valjean a brief kiss on his cheek and departed upstairs. They had just tended to Marius; at least he was alive! His friends weren't so lucky. Her daughter's cough caused the inspector's glance to change; he caught Fantine's eye for less than a second, but it was more than enough. She could feel the ball forming in her throat, the anxiety that came with his presence. And then there was anger. Not at Javert, no, but at Valjean.

She had as much of a complicated relationship with this man as he did, why would he put them through the torment of allowing him into their home? They couldn't be safe here with him, he would abuse this opportunity, he would snuff out their happiness with twitch at the corner of his mouth to form a smug, half smile.

As if sensing her apprehension, Valjean departed too and suddenly, there they were. Neither one dared move. Fantine closed her eyes, the queasiness beginning to become unable to ignore; perhaps she hoped that when she opened her eyes he would be gone.

He remained, unmoving.

Vaguely she noticed his hair was wet— not that she paid such details much heed; perhaps he had washed, been caught in the rain. She could never have guessed Valjean had pulled him from the Seine.

She wasn't sure what propelled her to do it. To pull a chair out opposite him and sit across the table from him. He didn't stir, nor did he acknowledge her. His hands rested, fingers linked together, upon the table-top. It was the first thing Fantine noticed, followed by his lack of blinking. Then, unable to identify why, one of her hands came to rest ontop of his. Again, he did not move. A soft squeeze followed.

She could have laughed if she was not close to tears.

Tears of anger or unresolved grief… Fantine could not differentiate. All she wanted was an explanation, yet he remained emotionless. She could have expelled the anger that had built up throughout the years onto him now, give him a burden to carry that she was sure he would dismiss with a wave of his hand. Nothing came. Only tears. Salty trails which found the corners of her mouth and stubbornly rested there.

_Why?_


	2. Chapter 2

**\- Chapter Two -**

She knocked but received no answer. Valjean had relayed what had happened to Javert and why he was here; he also apologised which had caused unexpected guilt on Fantine's behalf. Fantine understood why Valjean had reacted as he did, if not completely understanding how he could find it within himself to rescue Javert.

Finally, with a last-minute collection of whatever confidence she had left, Fantine opened the door just slightly and knocked again. She could see him sat on the arm chair placed opposite an unlit fire; he still did not stir, but he was dressed, and he was awake. She could tell he was awake by the twitch of his fingers around the end of the armrest.

He did not protest her entering his room. Then again, Fantine was not surprised. When one had reached the place he had— where death seemed the only way to escape the weight upon his shoulders, what did anything matter anymore? It reminded her of her time at the infirmary whilst she battled against her own body to stay alive for her daughter; although there were times in which Fantine couldn't help but entertain the thought of simply letting go… she had battled for so long!

"Monsieur…" her voice was weaker than she wished it to be. He would be aware of her nervousness, there was no hiding it now. "I've come to check on you."

Again, he did not acknowledge her, not even with a move of his head.

Kneeling in front of him with a bowl of water by her side and a soaked cloth, Fantine soon discovered she could barely meet his gaze. She had tried; like Valjean she wished to provide comfort, yet she was clammy, and her throat had betrayed her by closing. What could she say? Javert had seen the anger in her eyes the night of her arrest, witnessed her begging on her knees upon the floor in front of him. Javert knew that Fantine had every reason to despise him. That alone was hardly good grounds to start building trust on.

He briefly allowed his gaze to meet her own until Fantine found interest in the soaking cloth. She took his hand with the utmost care and began to wash his various wounds. Every now and then she apologised in response to his hisses.

She could remember, clearly and with distaste, how the nuns would try and wash her when she was sick. They handled her as if she were glass, but even the gentlest of touches sent soaring pains throughout her body.

"How are you doing it?"

Fantine momentarily tripped; she felt the cloth slip back into the bowl of water. She had allowed herself to grow comfortable in this silence.

"I'm not sure what you mean." The words left her throat, but it was a struggle.

Fantine was awarded with an exhalation of air on Javert's behalf; she understood it as a laugh of some sorts. "Yes, you do."

He had always been so matter-of-fact, but Fantine had allowed this knowledge to fade from her mind just like the image of his face. She had never expected to entertain ghosts of her past again, especially not like this.

Silence fell upon them again as Fantine struggled to find a response. Of course, she understood; how was she managing to sit there as she was and care for a man who knew she had no reason to do so. In fact, Fantine had every reason not to and yet, here she was.

"I need peace, too, Monsieur." Her honesty was immediately regretted, she did not want him to scoff, to dismiss such thoughts. "I could not forgive myself, nor come to terms with… with what has passed if I refused to help you where help was needed." She allowed the cloth to slip back silently into the bowl. "And loneliness is the worst disease any human can suffer." Fantine finally managed a smile; it was not returned, but she expected no less.

Javert did not speak again, neither did he catch her gaze. Fingers once resting on the end of the armrests had curled into his palm to form fists. She did not think she deserved kindness once, either. In fact, it was an ongoing battle, but perhaps in showing kindness to this man who believed himself underserving would teach Fantine herself that she deserved it, too.

And perhaps, although yet to be realised, Fantine and Javert were more alike than they would care to admit. Javert's loneliness was compelling, his grief familiar to Fantine's. Without Valjean, Fantine was sure she would not have healed how she did. Javert had made the first disgruntled step by allowing himself to take Valjean's hand. Now, Fantine would follow Valjean's example and allow herself to provide support, perhaps they would heal together yet.


End file.
